I can't
by emily.robbins.313
Summary: Sherlock has an eating disorder. John will always be there to help. One-shot.


Squirming. Pain. Uncomfortable. Vomit.

Why did transport need this? It's disgusting.

Calories. Fat. Sugar. Vile.

Pounds. Stone. Kilograms. All too much.

The feeling is not pleasant. Why does John seem to enjoy it so? Why does Mycroft relish it? It's almost frightening!

The feeling in your mouth. Dry, choking, scraping. Oozing, slimy, sticky. You can sense the calories, the fat, the sugar.

The taste never interested me, anyway.

WHAT IS IT ABOUT FOOD!? _IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE!_

"Eat, Sherlock…" John sobbed from the chair opposite my own.

"No."

"Please!" Begging. It never had much of an effect on me.

"No."

"You seem to be getting thinner by the minute – by the second – Please! Just eat, Sherlock!"

I stare at the toast with peanut butter in front of me. "What makes you think that's a bad thing?" I don't look up. I don't feel able to.

"You're dangerously thin. You haven't got any fat left to dissolve for energy – so your body has resorted to breaking down muscle. You need to stop this."

I manage to look up for just a second. Tears have filled John's eyes and he looks like he will shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment.

"I… I can't…" It's the truth. I could never understand eating – but around adolescence, I couldn't _stand_ eating. Something changed. Something snapped. I don't know what. Still don't know.

"Yes, you can. You can do this Sherlock…" John's trying to comfort me, but it feels more like guilt.

I pick up the slice of toast and examine it. White bread – 66 calories. Peanut butter – 188 calories. Too many.

I take a forced bite. The squirming of the food in my mouth; the pain and scraping down my throat; the discomfort of _food_ settling in my stomach. The urge to vomit is too much.

I rush to the bathroom. I clutch the toilet bowl with my left hand as I thrust two fingers from my right hand down my throat; searching for my gag reflex. I find it and am staring, once again, at the offending toast.

I notice John leaning against the door way as I slump against the wall. No energy. Never any after purging.

"You really feel like you can't, don't you?" John says while staring at me. Why is he staring at me? It's unnerving. I hate being stared at.

"Told you," I pant. I hate this feeling. That's why I don't eat.

"Do you want to talk?" I want to. I just don't know how. He'd leave if I told him the full extent of my demons. He can't leave. I won't let that happen.

"Not sure," it's true. I don't know.

John gives me an empathetic smile and sits next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders. I lean into the soothing touch, comforted by John's warmth. "That's ok. I'll be here when you decide." John takes a flannel from the sink and carefully cleans my face.

It's comforting having someone around; more so than I thought it would be. "I think I just need you to help me try to get better…"

"I try my best to help," John smiles, "we need to know the start point if I'm going to know your exact progress; where are the scales?"

"Over there," I point. I obsessively weigh myself, but I'm feeling so uncomfortable now. I think it is due to John's presence. I don't want him to know my weight, my measurements or anything else of that nature.

John places the scales on the floor in front of me. I have to try not to cry; not in front of him.

"Do you have enough energy to get up and stand on the scales?" John asks. I nod.

I place a foot on the scales, and then the other. I don't look at John; I can't. I look at the digital numbers on the scales instead. It's too much!

"Dear God, Sherlock!" John is hurt. I can't listen, but I have to. "I knew you were thin, but…" his voice breaks. I glance at him and see tears in his eyes.

"Not good?" I ask. I know it isn't good.

"You weigh seven stone! Your six feet tall! That gives you a BMI of 13.2; which is severely underweight!" John cries. I hate this part; when someone finds out just how big my problem is.

"You're going to leave." I'm shutting off my emotions. I'll hurt less that way.

"No Sherlock; I'm going to stay here and help you get better. I respect your decision if you don't want to go to hospital. I just want to get you through this."

"I'll get better, John. I'll try my best and I'll get better."

John is faithful and loyal. He'll keep his word; so I'll keep mine.

~The End~


End file.
